“What’s the meaning of life?” I asked Angel over breakfast.
He laughed so hard he had to excuse himself from the table. I started blushing, partly out of embarrassment for having asked such a “loaded” question and partly because there was so much truth in that moment. The moment where I ask a question that philosophers dedicate their lives to, human beings try to grasp even slightly so that they can feel some comfort in knowing their lives are worth something, or the question that monks meditate over their whole lives on and my Mayan friend is away from the table on the beach just laughing at the joy and absurdity of it all. Is that an answer in itself? It might be.
He returns to the table holding his stomach and says, “It just is. It’s this…” as he opens both hands and lifts his arms over his head gesticulating to our surroundings. Okay, fine. I can deal with the meaning of life being eating fresh fish on this gorgeous virgin island with the sound of the ocean and the warm sand caressing my feet forever, but let’s face it, I live in Chicago. Does that mean that my meaning of life is trying to get from point A to B without freezing off appendages and constantly cursing myself and my family for living somewhere so cold? That sucks!
“I can’t tell you the meaning of life because each life has its own meaning.” He says. I nod, slightly annoyed. “It’s just that I came here and it’s been amazing being here and tasting life in paradise and a part of me really doesn’t want to leave. I feel happy here, but then if the meaning of life is to find happiness then why do I feel so obligated to go back, like this type of life is too good for me? Or like I have to go back to the real world because this isn’t it?”
“I don’t know.” He says.
Neither do I.
What do you think?
P.S. Of course we eat fish for breakfast in paradise because it’s paradise and the fishermen bring in their bounty in the morning so its the freshest way to start the day.